


Actual Reality

by captainschmoop



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Denial, Dubious Consent, Gen, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainschmoop/pseuds/captainschmoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to a stupid decision on his part, Mark causes Roger to do something stupid in turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Roger woke up from a fitful sleep tangled in his sheets. He was breathing heavy and was drenched with sweat. Opening his eyes, he groaned as they made contact with the sunlight from his window. He brought a hand up to his forehead. A splitting pain was ravaging his head. _Fuck... what happened last night?_ Pinching the bridge of his nose, Roger tried to recall the events of the previous evening. 

 

Roger vaguely remembered yelling... but why? Mimi... he had a fight with Mimi. Something about her job... right? Whatever the fight was about, Roger became increasingly angry. The next thing he knew, Roger was at the nearest bar downing hard liquor. It gets extremely fuzzy after that. Concrete... hard, cold concrete, that's what he remembered; he landed face first on it. Roger had been thrown out the bar for having “one too many.” After that, Roger stumbled his way back to the loft. What happened next?

 

Mark... yeah, Mark was there to pick Roger up. Roger could always count on Mark to take care of him. He half dragged Roger to his room; Roger's mind was too incoherent to do anything other than mumble. Mark was always caring, safe, reliable... hell, just plain good. Mark then proceeded to put Roger to bed. Roger was flopped halfway onto his bed, Mark falling on him. Kneeling over him, Mark managed to haul Roger completely onto the pathetic mattress.

 

Mark was now kneeling above Roger's waist. They stayed like that for some time before Mark moved. He slowly slid his hands from Roger's chest to the rim of his jeans. He barely knew how it happened, but pretty soon both Mark and Roger were rid of their pants and underwear. Mark then started to massage Roger's length. All Roger could recall was the feeling of immense pleasure coursing through his body as Mark's strokes became faster. It didn't take long for Roger to become painfully hard. Then, Mark positioned himself above Roger's solid erection. And, with a wince and sharp in take of breath, Mark plunged downward onto. . .

 

Roger sprang upright, causing his already aching head to whirl. _Fuck... fuck, fuck, Fuck!_ Mark had... No, not his Mark, who was always safe, always constant. That didn't happen. Roger looked over himself for the first time that day. Sure enough, he was bare-ass, sticky, and... had dried blood on him? “Shit!” Roger nearly screamed. He tumbled out of his bed and threw on the nearest pair of sweats he could find. He staggered out of his room into the loft. Roger groaned yet again as his eyes made contact with the sunlight. He looked for any sign that Mark was home. The door to the bathroom opened, creaking slightly. Roger turned around and met Mark's gaze. They stared at each other until Roger found his voice.

 

“What the fuck, Mark?” Roger's voice cracked . Mark quirked an eyebrow at his roommate's outburst.

 

“Um, sorry I went to the bathroom?” Mark replied, cautiously walking towards the beat up couch. “How ya feeling, Rog?” He asked in a calm tone, still keeping Roger's gaze. Roger stared in disbelief. _How can he act so normal after last night?_ His head couldn't take this.

 

“Why the hell did you do it?” Roger asked as he slowly made his way in front of Mark. Roger felt his anger swell as he looked into those dull dark blue eyes. _How could he? He has so much to live for._ “Well? Why the fuck did you do it, Mark?” After a few moments, Mark finally broke eye contact.

 

“Why did I do what, Roger?” He asked with a sigh, slouching slightly into the couch's cushions, running a hand over his face. Roger's temper reached it's peak. He reached down and jerked Mark upwards by the collar of his shirt. Eyes met, fiery emerald green with calm sapphire blue. _Always so fucking calm._ Roger's grip on Mark's shirt tightened as he peered into those calm orbs.

 

“Don't give me any of your bullshit, you son of a bitch! You know damn well what I'm talking about. Now tell me why.” Roger fought to keep his voice calm and quiet, failing miserably. Mark finally showed emotion in his eyes: anger. He broke free from the grip and shoved Roger out of his way. A few feet away, he turned to Roger, only to give a glare.

 

“I don't need to take this. You're not my fucking mom.” His voice was still calm, and that served to infuriate Roger even more.

 

“Mark, tell me now.” Roger growled. He took a step towards Mark. Mark in turn took a step forward, daring the musician to come closer. Anger still appeared in his eyes, though nowhere near as much as Roger's.

 

“Tell you what, Roger? What the hell do you want to know?” Mark questioned as he crossed his arms over his chest. Roger reached an all time high as his temper rose at that question.

 

“I want to know why the hell would you fuck yourself on me without a Goddamn condom! Did the fact that I have AIDS slip your mind?” He shouted at his roommate. Roger slowed his breathing as he tried his hardest to calm down. Mark gaped at him with a look of surprise for a split second before his face became expressionless.

 

“Of course it didn't. I don't forget things like that.” He replied coolly. He was just standing there, hands in his pockets and eyes numb. Roger was dumbstruck. _What the hell? He didn't forget, so then why..._ And it hit Roger like a ton of bricks.

 

“You fucker! Are you saying you were _trying_ to get AIDS from me?” Mark gave a simple nod. Roger's eyes widened. _Fuck..._ “Why, Mark? Why the fuck do you want a death sentence?” His voice was cracking.

 

“It's simple, Roger: escape. I'm tired of living like this, being the one to survive. Our family is dying. We hardly talk to Maureen or Joanne. And what will happen when Collins dies? Or Mimi? Or... you? I'll be alone. I don't want to go on after that. Why live the rest of my life alone when I can escape?” He spoke quietly. Roger just gaped at the man before him. He didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His chest had tightened and throat had closed. After what seemed like an eternity, his voice came back.

 

“Jesus, Mark!” He managed to croak out. “I can't take this right now.” He ran both hands through his hair. Anger swelled in him once more as Mark's words sunk in. “You're such a dumbass. I can't believe you would do something as stupid as that! Christ, Mark!” He turned to leave, spitting a “Fuck you” as he did. Roger stopped dead in his tracks as he heard Mark's almost inaudible reply of, “You already did...”

 

Roger lost it. He turned so fast he almost lost his balance. Then he did something he never thought he would do: he flat out punched Mark square on the jaw. The force of the blow caused Mark to fly backwards onto the floor. Roger was panting, his being shaking. Mark gradually lifted himself into a sitting position. A bruise was already forming on his pale skin. He brought a hand to his jaw, wincing at the touch. He looked up wide eyed at Roger. Roger glared at him, eyes unforgiving.

 

“Mark,” Roger said, voice eerily quiet, “I want you to leave.” So quiet, yet his voice held so much venom it was frightening. Mark just sat there, dumbfounded. Roger hit him, Roger just said to leave, Roger isn't shouting. This scared Mark more than anything. Roger always shouted; that's how you knew it would be okay afterwards.

 

“Roger, you – ” he started, but was unable to finish due to the livid face staring at him.

 

“Shut up. Just get out. Now.” Still so quietly vicious. Mark staggeringly stood on his feet. He tried to reach for Roger, but was refused contact. “Get the fuck out. I never want to see you again.” There was no hesitancy in his words, only hatred. Mark turned and walked to the door. He had his hand on the knob, but he couldn't turn it. This has to be wrong. Roger wouldn't tell him to leave. Mark glanced back, trying to find some clue that this isn't happening. But he was met with something colder than hatred, a blank face of indifference.

 

Mark faced the door again. This was real; it wasn't a joke. He took a deep breath before opening the door. Mark stepped out the loft, whispering a small “Goodbye” before closing the door.

 

Losing his composure, Roger fell to his knees, his entire body trembling. _Shit..._ He wrapped his arms around his quivering being, hugging himself tight. _I just lost my best friend..._ Roger refused to let any tears fall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark's been missing two months. Roger's beyond worried.

Two months... Two whole fucking months! That's how long it's been since Roger kicked Mark out of the loft. He hasn't heard from the filmmaker at all. He called all of their friends, even gone as far as to talk to Benny, but none of them had seen Mark. And what's worse, that damned camera was still in the loft, collecting dust. This little fact scares Roger shitless. Wherever they went, whatever they did, Mark always had that stupid camera attached to him. Mark would freak if he didn't have it with him.

 

So, what was he doing now? Where was he? Roger troubled himself with questions he couldn't answer day after day. But the worst question pierced his heart like a blade: Did Mark get AIDS? And what if he did, and he's forced to live on the streets? He could be dead for all Roger knew. _Shit... don't think like that! He's got to be okay._ Lying down on the couch, Roger let out a sigh as he covered his face with his hands.

 

At the sound of the door opening, Roger sprang up and turned to face the noise. He was greeted with an apologetic looking Mimi. The blonde's face fell a little as he slouched into the beaten cushions. Mimi gave a sad, small smile as she made her way into the kitchen.

 

This was her routine, had been for about two weeks. She would get off of work, head to the loft, disappoint Roger, make him coffee, maybe talk, and leave for the night. She sighed as she waited on the pot. The dancer looked over to the musician, if you could call him that. The guy hasn't touched his guitar since Mark left. He just stares off into space most of the time.

 

Roger let out another sigh as he closed his eyes. Once again, he tried to fathom some idea as to where Mark could be. He was shaken out of his reverie by the cough Mimi gave. Roger blinked at her, realizing that she was offering him his cup.

 

“Come on, babe,” she spoke as he took the cup, “sit with me?” Mimi sauntered over to the window and sat. Roger stared at his cup for a minute before reluctantly following her. He had turned to Mimi first, forgetting about their fight. Roger had pounded on her door, shouting for her to open up. After an hour of the racket, the door opened to reveal a _very_ pissed off Mimi. Her attitude changed, however, when she noticed the pathetic creature kneeling on the ground in front of her door. She quickly knelt down beside him in attempt to figure out what was wrong with her then ex. Needless to say she was a little shocked after hearing the story. She was the only one who knew the whole story.

 

“How was work?” Roger asked, shocking them both. Mimi smiled warmly at him as she gave a recount of her day. Roger listened halfheartedly, peering out the window. Mimi noticed but chose to ignore it. She finished talking, knowing Roger probably never heard a word. She got up and kissed the top of Roger's head. “See you, Roger. Get some sleep, okay?” And with that and a final look at the blonde, Mimi left the loft.

 

Roger didn't even hear her leave; he never does, really. _She'll always come back._ He sighed. Why can't she be him? Why can't he just walk through that door, smiling his stupid lopsided grin, apologizing for making Roger worry like an idiot, running to wipe the dust off his beloved camera. _Why, Goddammit?!_ Roger leaned his forehead against the cool window glass. Where the _fuck_ was his best friend?

 

And that's the position Roger was in when the door opened timidly after an hour or two. Mark cautiously peered around the loft. It was eerily silent. He didn't like that. Then he noticed Roger, leaning against the window. The blonde didn't seem to notice Mark's presence.

 

Mark stood in front of the door, simply looking at the musician. Was he still mad? Probably. He himself couldn't believe he did what he did. But Mark couldn't take the event back, no matter how much he wanted to. He sighed. Mark peered over to the window. Roger didn't move.

 

“Roger...?” Mark called cautiously.

 

Roger blinked a few times. “...Roger?” There it was again. That wasn't Mimi's voice. Roger had heard the door open but was sure it was the brunette checking in on him again. He slowly turned around, his heart pounding in anxiety. His eyes widened minutely.

 

Mark was standing in the loft, that same worried look he'd give Roger when he didn't take is AZT on his pale face. He twisted the ends of his scarf in his hands as he nervously shifted from foot to foot. Roger blinked again.

 

 _Holy shit!_ Roger sprang up from his spot and rushed toward Mark, who flinched. He stopped suddenly a foot away from the smaller blonde, his eyes blazing. Mark was terrified. They stood like that for a while, Mark cowering beneath Roger's intense gaze. Then, Roger moved.

 

“You son of a bitch!” Roger yelled, advancing on Mark. The filmmaker clenched his eyes shut, awaiting the blow that was sure to come. But it didn't. Instead, he felt a tight embrace around his being. Mark opened his eyes. Roger was hugging him! Sighing in relief, Mark hesitantly returned the hug. He could feel his shoulder and neck beginning to dampen. _Oh God, Roger's crying..._

 

 _He's back... The fucking asshole is back!_ Roger felt the tears leak out as he nuzzled Mark's neck. God, how Roger missed him, missed the small frame that was hugging him now like the many times Mark did during Roger's withdrawal. He even missed the stupid, moronic jerk that made him so angry before... _Hey, wait a minute..._

 

“You little piece of shit!” Roger spat, ripping out of the embrace, much to Mark's surprise. Mark flinched as Roger grasped at his shirt. “Where the _fuck_ have you been?” Roger growled, all but slamming Mark into the door. Mark winced as his head collided with the metal. Roger's eyes were aflame with rage, yet Mark saw a strange glimmer underneath the blaze. “ _Well?_ ”

 

Mark swallowed nervously. This was starting to resemble a withdrawal episode. “R-roger... calm down...” he managed to gasp out, “ _please...!_ ” He pleaded with the musician. Roger looked at Mark clutching at his wrists, trying in vain to loosen his death grip. The anger that was flowing rapidly throughout his body began to slow. Worry started to enter his system then, and he released his grasp on the filmmaker's shirt, his hands shaking.

 

“God, Mark!” Roger backed away from the smaller blonde. “Where the hell were you?” Roger stared right into Mark's eyes. He clenched his fists to keep himself rooted in one spot. Mark gazed fearfully back at the guitarist, debating on what to say. With Roger, one has to tread lightly.

 

“I was... thinking.” Mark stated slowly, bracing himself for another angry outburst. Roger blinked at him. They stood still for a moment. Then...

 

“What the _fuck_ does _that_ mean?” Roger growled, inching ever so slightly forward. Mark's been missing for a month, shows up suddenly without warning, and is now talking in riddles? _This is pissing me off!_

 

“Roger, calm down!” Mark pleaded hastily. “What I meant was I was thinking things over at Cindy's.” Mark eyed Roger warily. Roger blinked again. _Cindy's?_ _Why the hell didn't I think to call her?_ “Is it okay for me to be here?” Roger looked at the filmmaker. His head was down, and he was trembling the slightest bit. Roger sighed.

 

“This is your home, isn't it?” Roger crossed his arms. _Dammit! Where did my anger go?_ Mark looked up, surprised. Roger sighed. “Well, isn't it?” Mark smiled, not quite the lopsided grin Roger wanted to see, but it was better than nothing at all. “But don't think for a _second_ you're off the hook.” Mark's smile faded in an instant. _That's right, be afraid._

 

“I-I know...” Mark looked down again, ashamed. Roger studied him, taking in how he looked. He was skinny. Well, Mark had always been skinny, but he was skinnier than before he left. His hair was longer, darker, and he had stubble on his chin. And he was definitely paler than before. This wasn't boding well.

 

“Mark,” Roger began. Mark looked up, noting the weird tone in Roger's voice. “Are you sick?” Mark raised an eyebrow.

 

“No, you know I never get colds.” Roger clenched his jaw, willing himself not to strike the blonde in front of him.

 

“That's not what I meant, you dumb fuck.” Mark just stared at him, head cocked a little. Eyes closing, Roger sighed, counting to ten as he did so. “Do you have AIDS?” He opened his eyes, peering at Mark with an intensity that made the filmmaker uneasy.

 

Finally understanding the question, Mark swallowed. The look in Roger's eyes scared him. “...No,” he breathed, “No, I don't.” Mark stared at Roger, waiting for a reaction. He got none.

 

Roger didn't move. He just watched Mark, searching for any sign that he was lying. Mark looked back at him, nervous. He didn't like the silence between them. Roger noticed. “Why are you so nervous?” He asked, taking a step forward. His face was still expressionless.

 

Mark flinched. He didn't really want to say it, but if he didn't, Roger would think the worst. “I... You scare me.” He confessed, avoiding Roger's eyes. He stood still, leaning against the door, rethinking his decision on coming back to the loft.

 

Roger's eyes widened. He scared Mark? _Well... shit._ Roger sighed, walking over to the couch. He plopped down and closed his eyes. This wasn't going well. He looked over to the door where Mark was still standing. He was watching Roger nervously, never having moved an inch. He had enough.

 

“Look, I'm sorry, okay?” He finally said. He nodded his head for Mark to move. Mark hesitantly obeyed, walking over and sitting on the couch. “But what you did was stupid. I still can't believe you did that.” He looked at Mark, shaking his head in disgust. Mark nodded, his head down.

 

They sat there for a moment, Roger watching Mark fiddle with his hands. Then, Roger sighed. He slowly got up and walked over to the door. Mark watched, curious in the musician's slow movements. Roger bent down and reached for something. He picked it up and carefully brought it other to Mark.

 

“I didn't touch it,” Roger began as he held it out for Mark to take, “I was afraid I'd break it.” Mark took it, a blank expression on his face. “It's dusty, too, so sorry about that. I should've taken better care of it.” Mark ran his hand over his camera, wiping some of the dust off. He had missed his camera; there was no denying the fact. “It's okay? It's not broken?” Roger asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

 

Mark looked from Roger to the camera in his hands. He cranked the lever, and flipped the switch. There was a soft whir as the crank began turning. Mark looked through the eyepiece and saw Roger standing there, face curious, slouched and hands in his pockets. Mark smiled. “Yeah, it works.”

 

Roger smiled, bright and big. “Good.” Mark filmed for a few seconds more before turning the camera off. Roger noticed how he held the item close to his being. It was almost like going back in time, to a timid Mark who first moved to the big city. “Come on,” Roger called as he disappeared into Mark's former room. Mark stood, about to follow when Roger reappeared. “We should go to the Life and have a little family reunion.” Roger handed Mark his black and white scarf.

 

Mark took the cloth, holding it close along with his camera. He really didn't take anything when he left. Roger nodded to himself and walked over to the phone. Mark watched as he dialed and waited. Then Roger perked up. “Thomas?” Mark inwardly groaned. Why did Roger have to call Collins first? He didn't want to listen in on the conversation, so he ventured to his room.

 

Everything was the same as he left it. He breathed in the air; he was finally home. He placed his camera on his bed, then he put his scarf around his neck. It was the perfect fit. Placing his hands in his pockets, Mark stared at the camera. It was intimidating, laying there on his old bed, staring up at him, accusing.

 

Roger walked in the room, stopping when he found Mark in a staring contest with his camera. “Yeah... Having fun?” Mark jumped, quickly composing himself. “Get ready. I have to go get Mimi then we're off.” With that, Roger made to leave, but he stopped at the door frame. Without turning around, he said, “I'm glad you're back... and healthy.” And then he left.

 

Mark just stood there. He wasn't ready. He'd never be ready. “Oh God...” Mark pulled out a crumbled piece of paper from his pocket. Swallowing hard, he reread the one line – that one word – that he would never forget, that changed his life forever.

 

“Mark,” Mark hastily shoved the paper back into his pocket before Roger poked his head into the room. “Let's go.” Mark nodded as he followed Roger out his room, hands in his pockets. His finger tips felt the dreadful paper. Mark sighed as Mimi pulled him in for a hug. He wouldn't be able to handle it. He followed the two out the loft, longing to just stay there and rot.

 

He heard Mimi whisper something to Roger. The musician then said that Mark wasn't sick. _Oh God..._ Mimi knew what he'd done? Fuck. He really couldn't handle this. He thought he could, but he can't. He was such a hypocrite. Why had he done it?

 

Collins pulled him into a bear hug when they got to the Life Cafe, Maureen and Joanne waiting in line for their turn. They were all smiling, thankful for his return. Mark wasn't thankful. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be anywhere but there. Why the fuck had he done it? _Escape?_ Mark internally laughed, bitter. He had no escape now. He was done. And it was his own fault.

 

He was positive.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark has to deal. There's only one problem: Mark doesn't deal well.

Roger and Mark walked back into the loft in silence. Mark hadn't said much since they were in the Life Café. Roger was worried, thinking it was a bad idea to have a reunion so quickly. He was just so relieved to finally have Mark back in his life that he wanted to share it with everyone else. Speaking of which, he should probably call Benny, just to tell him Mark's all right. The musician hated Benny, but the landlord was still Mark's friend.

 

“Hey...” Roger began, scratching the back of his neck, “are you okay? You've been quiet since we ordered.” Roger leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. Mark sighed as he sat down on their dilapidated couch. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“I'm just tired.” He said, looking Roger in the eyes for the first time since Roger shoved him against the wall. “I didn't expect them to know what I did.” Mark spoke quietly, looking away from the guitarist at the end of his speech. Roger quirked an eyebrow.

 

“What do you mean ‘what you did’?” Roger asked, moving toward the filmmaker. Mark tensed as Roger came near him. He adverted his eyes, not wanting to admit it to the musician aloud.

 

“That I, that I, uh, took advantage of you?” Mark struggled with his words, stuttering under the heated gaze Roger gave him. “I wasn't ready to face them yet.” Mark stared at his hands in his lap, twisting them nervously.

 

Roger stared at Mark for a while, making Mark all the more uncomfortable. The filmmaker wanted him to say something, anything, instead of just ignoring the situation like the others did. Well, he didn't really want to deal with it, but he didn't want the gang to treat him like a _fucking_ saint-come-home when he doesn't deserve it.

 

“Mark,” Roger finally spoke, “You think I'd actually _tell_ them?” He asked incredulously, his anger flaring the tiniest bit. Mark looked up questioningly, eyes wide. “Why would I want them to know? That's between us, _just_ us.” Roger sat down, looking at Mark with serious, caring eyes. Mark just sat there with his mouth agape. _No one knew? Are you fucking kidding me?_

 

“But...” Mark tried to recover, “What about Mimi? I heard you tell her I wasn't... wasn't sick.” He stated hesitantly. He was sure he heard right. He even noticed the way Mimi glanced at him, that worried, skeptic look in her eyes.

 

Roger furrowed his brows before he remembered. “Oh, well, I kind of, uh... lost it... after I realized I kicked you out.” He admitted sheepishly. “I ran to Mimi and just, just told her everything. Well, everything I remembered, which wasn't much.” He looked away, somewhat ashamed that he told.

 

Mark was quiet. A bittersweet relief washed over him. Roger doesn't remember. He didn't _remember_. Mark didn't know if he should be happy or not. Roger didn't say anything, feeling all the more embarrassed by the moment. Mark just sat there in silence, refusing to open his mouth lest he say something he'd regret.

 

After a while, Roger cleared his throat. “Well...” he stood up, scratching his head, “I think... I'm gonna hit the sack.” He quickly walked to his room, stopping abruptly at the door frame. “I'm sorry, Mark.” And he was gone.

 

Mark watched him leave, staring at the spot where Roger had occupied, incredulous. _He was sorry?_ He _was sorry! What. The. Fuck._

 

He sat there for a few more minutes before getting up with a long sigh. He went into his room, coming face to face with his camera. A staring contest ensued, one Mark was sure to lose. The accusing object glared up at the blonde, its lens shining with a secret. Mark walked forward, trembling. He reached for it, his skin feeling as though it was on fire when it made contact.

 

Picking it up, he gently ran his hand to the crank. Mark hesitated, his hand tenderly gripping the crank. Then, in a swift movement, Mark ripped the reel out of the camera. Placing the camera rather roughly on his bed, Mark ran out into the main room, reel in hand.

 

He stopped dead center in the room, trying to calm his nerves. Mark knew what was on that reel, and it would destroy him. Roger, too. Hands shaking, Mark stared down at the reel, his heart racing. He had to destroy it, erase all evidence of his horrible betrayal to his friendship with Roger. Looking around the room for a tool that would do the job, Mark spotted a rusted hammer hiding behind a random box by the phone. Still clutching the reel, Mark sped to it.

 

After obtaining the tool, Mark glanced back and forth from the hammer and the reel. He had never destroyed any of his film before. They were all a part of him. _The better part._ The filmmaker gently knelt down, placing the reel hesitantly in front of him. Gripping the hammer's handle tightly with both hands, Mark raised the object directly above the evidence.

 

Mark stood that way for a while. The hammer began to tremble, yearning to bring itself down on its awaiting victim. Mark didn't know if he could do it. He lived for his films; could he really destroy a part of himself? _You all ready did._ Mark blinked. _What's stopping you now?_ A little voice chided inside Mark's head. _So hard to break a reel yet so easy to use a friend..._ Mark shook his head, trying his hardest to rid himself of his demons.

 

But it was true. Why couldn't he break this dumb reel? Was it really easier to break the trust of his best friend? Drawing in a breath, Mark let the hammer fall with all its might onto the reel, smashing it again and again, feeling the tears threatening to fall.

 

Why did he have to do something so stupid? With each stroke of the hammer, Mark remembered a frame from that night. _Smash_. Mark positioned himself on top of Roger's erection. _Crash_. Without preparation, Mark thrust himself onto Roger's length. _Crunch_. Roger reaching out to Mark, trying to cease the pain. The hammer stopped falling.

 

Mark just stared at the broken pieces of reel, panting a little. He let the hammer slip from his hands as he remembered Roger that night. The musician had placed both hands on Mark's hips, trying to stop him. He looked at Mark with those intense emerald eyes. Mark remembered being scared that Roger snapped out of his drunken stupor, but that wasn't the case. Roger merely rubbed soothing circles on Mark's skin with his thumbs, his eyes never leaving Mark's.

 

“ _No, don't hurt,” Roger had said, his eyes alight with emotion, “Not like this.” Roger let his hands gently roam over Mark's sides, stopping on his chest, above his heart. Roger looked at Mark with something in his eyes that Mark would have never thought his best friend would direct at him. “I love you too much to hurt you like this.” Roger leaned forward, bringing Mark downward with his hands to meet him halfway for the sweetest kiss Mark had ever experienced._

 

Mark choked as he remembered Roger's gentle actions. He remembered pushing Roger away from him, slamming the musician back down on the bed. He remembered taking charge, riding Roger as Roger closed his eyes, panting. He remembered Roger arching off the bed, warning Mark he was close. Mark remembered the worried look in Roger's eyes as Mark kept going, determined to get the virus within him. Mark remembered Roger climaxing, sending Mark himself over the edge. Mark remembered how Roger held him close as he hurriedly fell asleep, the exertion too much for his drunken state.

 

Mark looked at the shattered reel. That's how he felt. Roger had confessed his love while he was intoxicated. Mark knew it wasn't just a random thing Roger decided to say. Roger always speaks what he really feels when he's wasted. Mark couldn't wrap his mind around it. Roger loved him, was in love with him. And Mark betrayed him, used him. God, why did he do it?

 

Tears fell from his eyes. Mark was surprised, but he couldn't stop himself. He cried, something he hadn't done in seven years. He sobbed, hugging himself as his wails racked through his body. Why did he have to fuck everything up?

 

Roger watched the scene from his door frame, the noise from the hammer colliding with the floor drawing his attention. He was shocked, to say the least: Mark was crying. No, he was flat out sobbing like a baby. He felt helpless; he wasn't the comforting type. That was Mark's job. He just stood there, looking on as Mark clutched himself, rocking slightly. Roger just couldn't move.

 

Try as he might, Mark could not stop crying. He was crying for everyone now, years of pent up emotion flooding out. He cried for April, for Angel, for Collins, for Mimi, for himself. Mostly, though, Mark cried for Roger. Roger was a great friend, one of the best anyone could have, and Mark just threw that friendship away. He didn't deserve it, didn't deserve Roger's embrace or his calming words. He definitely didn't deserve Roger's love.

 

Mark cried all into the night, Roger watching the whole time. Mark didn't want it. All the times he tried to encourage Roger to live on, Mark was secretly glad it wasn't him. Now, he'd have to live with it. But... he didn't have to accept it. Right now, sure. Mark let himself feel sorry for himself, wishing he was in a nightmare, hoping against hope he'd wake up healthy. Tonight, Mark will allow the irreversible to consume him.

 

Tomorrow, however, he'll escape reality. He'll escape the virus, Roger, and himself.

 

 _Like I always do..._


End file.
